


Cracks in the Ceiling

by UrbanHymnal



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 13:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrbanHymnal/pseuds/UrbanHymnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Screaming, flinches, shattered glass, a ruined t-shirt, and a broken night's rest. Harvey follows Mike into the shadows and finally begins to see what he missed before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Please note that this story deals with the following in a non-explicit manner: bullying, violence, and sexual assault. </p>
<p>Suits_meme prompt fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks in the Ceiling

**Author's Note:**

> I am not going to lie. Posting this makes me incredibly nervous so any feedback at all would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Please heed the warnings/tags on this one, folks. I really don't want anyone to be surprised by what goes on in this story. It is not graphic, but it is mentioned and is the impetus behind this story.

Mike disappears at lunch, is gone over an hour before finally showing back up, face red from the cold. Harvey overlooks it because for the past three days they have been working on a new case and he is already planning on making his own brief getaway lest he strangle the next person that enters his office. When Mike shows up late, Harvey gives him an abridged lecture on keeping his phone on at all times before ducking out of the building to clear his head, thankful for the brief respite from having to plow through yet another box of files. It will be another mind-numbingly long night ahead for both of them and he is already dreading the sight of his own office.

At the time, he thinks nothing of his associate's behavior because Mike, while brilliant, has shown to be scatter brained; fifteen minutes late and a dead phone are not, annoyingly, odd occurrences. Later, Harvey will look back on this moment and wonder if Mike's cheeks were only chapped red from the cold, if the subtle sniffle he tried to hide signified something else entirely.

\-----

Harvey stretches slowly, back cracking pleasantly and muscles groaning. His mind feels uncomfortably hazy, too many nights with only an hour or two of sleep followed by cup after cup of coffee leaving him feeling like he's pulled a little too thin, nerves twitching and twanging. The only consolation is that he managed to finagle their way out of another late night at the office, choosing to relocate to his apartment. His back is grateful; the couch is infinitely more comfortable than his office chair. He stands, barely covering a yawn, before tossing the stack of papers he had been reading onto the coffee table. "Look those over. Make sure I didn't miss anything."

Mike raises his head as if it weighs about fifty pounds, eyes bloodshot and ringed in purple. "The great Harvey Specter thinks he missed something?"

"Let me rephrase: I didn't miss anything. Check it anyway." He turns, fingers already starting to unbutton his rumpled dress shirt, mind focusing on the pleasant idea of curling up under his soft bed sheets.

"Wait. Where are you going?" The question gets swallowed in a jaw popping yawn, but Harvey is able to decipher its meaning.

"Bed."

"Oh, right. Okay." Mike begins shuffling papers together, destroying any order that Harvey had created. He fumbles for his bag, dropping more papers than he actually manages to get into the satchel. "I'll just head home. See you at the office later."

"You planning on walking home?"

Mike pauses, hands stilling their frantic packing, brow furrowed.

"You came here in the car with me, Mike." Harvey shakes his head, marveling at the way his associate can remember a book word for word he read in the fourth grade, but somehow still manages to forget what he did earlier this evening. "I think that tells me how well your mind is actually working right now."

"Mind is fine. I just wiped the memory of you being nice to me, ya know, actually helping me out with all this reading instead of leaving me to it."

Harvey rolls his eyes. "Right, because I am obviously the worst person in existence. How dare I actually insist that my associate pull his own weight?" He walks over and snatches the papers out of Mike's hand and drops them back down onto the table. "Get some sleep, kid. The couch is pretty comfortable. You can worry about calling a cab in the morning to take you back to your place. Turn the lights off before you head to bed." With that, he heads into his bed room and, after carefully folding his clothes and hanging them because even exhausted he wouldn't dare just toss one of his suits onto the floor, falls into bed, quickly slipping into a blissful slumber.

\-----

At first, Harvey isn't entirely sure what wakes him. He goes from dreaming of a long-legged, buxom blonde seductively unbuttoning his pants with just her teeth to wide awake, eyes snapping open and searching around his early dawn-lit bedroom. He lies there for a beat, heart thumping loudly in his chest, trying to figure out what exactly ripped apart his amazing, brain-melting dream.

He finally hears it: a muffled shout coming from the living room. He reaches under his bed for the baseball bat he keeps there— lessons learned in youth too hard to break despite all the fancy suits and security afforded to one of the nicest apartment buildings in New York. He shuffles forward on bare feet, easing his door open enough for him to look out without giving his position away. Another cry sends him rushing forward, heedless of potential danger, bat held at the ready.

In the dimly lit room, he can make out the back of the couch, a lump of blankets and pillows dumped onto the floor at one end; the sharp angle of the coffee table knocked askew, papers strewn. He pads around the end of the couch, bat resting on his shoulder. His first sight of Mike makes him think the young man has stupidly fallen off the couch, the fall shocking him awake and wrenching a cry out of him. It isn't until he gets closer that he notices the faint tremor running through Mike and hears the sobbing, a desperate, choking, and messy sound.

Now certain that there is no one in the apartment other than the two of him, he drops the bat next to the table and kneels down next to the curled form of his associate. "Mike?" He gets nothing more than a whimper as Mike curls tighter inwards, face impossible to see in the darkness. Harvey doesn't think the younger man is hurt—the drop from the couch isn't that far—but he supposes if anyone could hurt themselves falling out of bed, it would be Mike. Reaching over, he flicks on the end table lamp and then places one tentative hand on Mike's shoulder.

The touch sends the previous curled Mike into overdrive, stillness replaced with a chaotic flailing of skinny arms and legs. Harvey reaches out and grabs one of his arms in attempt to calm Mike, which just causes the young man to struggle harder. A clumsy fist clips Harvey on the chin before he can get out of the way and, while it doesn't particularly hurt, it is enough of a surprise that it sends him sprawling on his ass. Mike skitters backwards, trying his damnedest to put as much distance between him and Harvey as possible; the entire time he is making a whimpering, keening noise, sounding more like an injured, terrified animal than a grown man. In his desperate flight, he rams into the end table; the lamp overturns, a twisted shadow show playing out across the wall before it smashes onto the floor. Heedless of the damage he has created, Mike continues moving away. His palms, slick with sweat, slap on the hardwood floor, pushing, slipping and sliding, frantically searching for purchase on something, anything.

Harvey watches, wide-eyed, completely unsure of what exactly is happening. This has spiraled quickly beyond anything he is even capable of controlling; the half-formed joke about rookies wetting the bed dying in his rapidly drying mouth. Mike isn't really looking at him, eyes glassy and rolling in his head, not truly seeing anything in the apartment. His whimper has tapered off and it is only then that Harvey notices the quick rise and fall of Mike's chest, his breath punching out of him, teeth clacking together so hard that Harvey worries (wildly) that Mike is going to chip them.

It feels like he has been staring at his associate for hours, but it couldn't have been more than a minute or two; both frozen in place, afraid to move. The chattering noise finally snaps Harvey out of his mental fog. Mike shows no sign of calming on his own, which means he has to do something  _now_ before his associate passes out. He edges slowly forward towards the corner Mike has wedged himself in.

He wets his lips and swallows hard before speaking. "Okay, kid, your left hook needs some work. Remind me to teach you how to actually throw a punch." He raises his hands and moves closer, once he is sure that Mike isn't going to try to take another swing at him. He tries to sidestep the shattered lamp, but still feels the sharp bite of glass as his bare left foot makes contact with the hard floor. He chokes back a curse, settling for a pain-filled grunt, but continues moving forward, eyes locked on the trembling form in the corner. He's close enough now that he can easily reach out and touch Mike, but he stops, fingers a hair's breadth away from making contact on with Mike's exposed calf. "Just so you know, I liked that lamp, so, once you're done with this little freak out, you owe me a new one."

He's not even sure what he is saying at this point, just notes the way Mike's trembling is slowly subsiding, hands that had come up to shield his face slowly dropping. Harvey's words and his tone don't match up; he's too focused on keeping a calming rumble going to really care about what he is saying. He gently places a hand on Mike's bare knee and squeezes. Mike flinches, a full body jerk, that looks like it actually hurts as his elbows and head connect with the wall behind him. "Easy, rookie. It's just me. No one else is here." He waits a beat, thumb rubbing a steady circle on Mike's knee, breathing forcefully calm as if he can lead by example.

Harvey presses his luck when Mike doesn't lash out again and settles down next to Mike, legs and arms brushing against one another. Mike tenses for a moment and then relaxes, a wet, pain-wrecked cry pushing past his lips. Harvey hesitantly, awkwardly, wraps an arm around his thin shoulders and tugs Mike towards his chest. Taking it as the invitation it is, he slumps against Harvey, fingers tangling in the older man's t-shirt, burying his face into the stretched collar. He grips the fabric tight as if it is the only thing keeping him tied to the earth, keeping him from shaking apart into a thousand pieces. Harvey pulls him closer against his chest, hand fisting in the short hairs at the base of Mike's skull, letting him burrow uncomfortably into his side.

They sit there until light slowly crawls up the walls, the sounds of the city picking up outside. Harvey's neck is damp; his shirt ruined, the shape now distorted from the constant twisting of Mike's fingers, the fabric a mess of tears, snot, and saliva. Mike's crying has tapered off, only giving way to the occasional hiccup and clogged, wet sniffle.

"H-Harvey?" He feels more than hears his name, a brush of hot air against his skin as Mike whispers, voice rough and water logged.

"Yeah, kid?"

"M'okay." His breath hitches, shoulders jumping with a half-buried sob. Mike slowly starts to untangle himself; he sucks a breath through his teeth as muscles held too long in a tense position cramp up.

"Yeah, kid." It's a damn lie, but he lets him have it for the time being, lets him try to collect his battered dignity. Harvey works Mike's fingers free from his shirt, carefully rubbing joints and tendons to ease the white-knuckled cramp. Once Mike is no longer clinging to him, Harvey makes to stand, only to be stopped by a hand grabbing at the leg of his pajama pants.

"D-Don't." Mike flushes red and then quickly looks away, hand dropping to his lap and curling into a fist.

Harvey doesn't comment at the display, fingers automatically resting on Mike's sleep-matted hair, a brief soothing touch before withdrawing. "You're coming with me. I've had enough of these floors, especially when I have a perfectly good bed in the next room." He offers a hand down to Mike and then jerks him to his feet, other hand steadying him when the younger man sways. Limping, he guides Mike towards the bedroom, carving a wide path around the glass.

Mike flops onto the bed, a boneless mess as if the last of his energy was drained out of him by the brief trek from the living room to here. He doesn't close his eyes immediately, as Harvey half-expects (hopes), but continues to stare at Harvey, eyelids drooping but refusing to close. Harvey considers digging out a clean t-shirt for him, knowing the sweat soaked shirt he is currently wearing is now drying and sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He discards the idea; the terrified sound Mike made at just being touched still ringing in his ears. It can wait until later, when that look isn't still in Mike's eyes, when Harvey isn't still trying to get his hands to stop shaking.

"I'm just going to—," he jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. It goes without saying that he will leave the door open enough that Mike can still see him, still hear him moving around. Mike slowly blinks at him in response, which Harvey supposes is the best he is going to get.

His leg shakes as he tries to keep the arch of his foot from touching the tiles in his bathroom, toes curling against the cold floor. He flicks on the light before bending down to rummage under his sink for his first aid kit, a basket with a hodge-podge of Band-Aids, Neosporin, alcohol and cotton balls. Harvey wets down a washcloth before finally sitting on the edge of his toilet to survey the damage. It's a jagged piece dug into the fleshy soft arch of his foot, dried blood flaking as he cleans the area so he can see what he is doing. He works on auto-pilot, barely feeling the sting. His fingers pull and tug on the large sliver of glass, while his mind twists and turns. What did he miss? In all those moments of joking, teasing, poking, mocking, and deriding, those quiet evenings filled with the rustle of paper, the scratching of pens, and the hum of jazz, in between stolen cups of coffee and hastily eaten hot dogs, he had failed to see this dark monstrous thing that is a part of his associate's life. And there is no doubt in his mind that this isn't some bizarre isolated incident, brought on by lack of sleep and too many energy drinks. Finger tips slick with blood, he watches a fat drop hit the white tile under his foot; he sees flinches, at loud sounds and too close bodies, not detected before, slight and tightly controlled. How much is he really remembering and how much is fabrication now colored by hard-won knowledge? He can't be sure; his own failure warping each remembered encounter.

He finishes, foot now wrapped, and leaves the mess on the countertop to be dealt with later. He snags his phone from his dresser, feeling Mike's eyes on him the entire time. Dragging a chair next to the bed, he sits and props his injured foot up next to Mike's leg, close enough to give him a reassuring nudge when he starts softly whimpering when sleep manages to drag him under for scant seconds before jerking himself awake, but not otherwise touching him. In the light of day, with the memories of the past few hours still fresh and embarrassment slowly setting in, Harvey is not sure that Mike would be willing to accept anything else from him.

He thumbs his phone on and first sends a text to Donna:  _Rookie and I won't be in this morning. Will explain everything later. Promise._ A short email to Jessica requires a little more finesse, more explanation. Harvey explains away their absence with tales of a paper trail and an interview they needed to follow up on for their case. He, sadly, cannot just skip out of work entirely today, as much as the burning muscles in his back and shoulders and the dull ache behind his eyes want him to just curl up and sleep for the next three days. He—they have responsibilities that cannot be brushed off, but he can buy them some time, at least until later this afternoon when they have to appear in court.

As he types, he listens to Mike, eyes flicking over occasionally to note how Mike continues to avoid sleep, tensing up each time his body starts to relax. He's humming softly, off tune and wobbly, breath hitching when he fills in parts with words. He remembers his little brother doing something similar during thunderstorms or when screaming floated through the thin as paper apartment walls, seeking comfort in the sound. Harvey leans back, eyes closing, and relaxes for a brief moment.

"W-w-with scarves of red tied 'round their throats . . ." Mikes hums the next few lines, sniffling into the pillow, voice tapering off into a whisper. "And I turned 'round and there you go. . ." He continues, snatches of notes and words managing to calm his nerves.

Harvey drifts, feeling warm sunlight streaming through his windows brushing his cheeks, exhaustion tugging at his bones. He hears distantly Mike settling further into the bed. He opens his eyes when he feels Mike shuffle closer, sheet covered hip coming to press against Harvey's leg, fingers barely brushing his ankle.

In the quiet blanketing the apartment, Harvey studies the crow's feet that pinch around Mike's eyes, looking out of place on his young face. Mike sighs, shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and licks his lips. His mouth opens and closes several times before he manages to finally get the words out.

"That doesn't—I don't—it's not that bad." It sounds like the excuse it is and Harvey's too tired, too rubbed raw to just let it be.

"The hell it isn't." It comes out harsher than he intended, but anything he said earlier to comfort Mike is a blatant lie; this isn't okay or simple or something that just can be ignored. He may have wanted to wait until they both had at least a little bit of sleep and preferably either a strong cup of coffee or a shot (or five) of whiskey to discuss this, but he can already see Mike shutting down and locking everything away. It's now or he'll never get the kid to talk about it again. And damn it, he doesn't want to be the asshole here, but he will press this because he has to. "How often?"

Mike shrugs and rolls over, back now facing him. "Just happens sometimes. Gets worse when I am really tired or stressed."

"So, all the goddamn time." Harvey runs a hand through his hair, trying to figure out the best way to ask because Mike isn't offering anything, uncharacteristically closed lipped. He gives up and goes for blunt asking. "Does this have to do with your parents?"

Mike sighs. "I may have a lot of regrets about—," he pauses and shrugs. "I haven't had a nightmare about the night they died in a long time."

He nods and files this bit of information away. His mind skips and stutters at the thought of something nightmare worthy that is worse than losing both parents. For one cowardly moment he thinks about shying away from this line of questioning before gritting his teeth and continuing. "Okay. Trevor?"

"Jesus, Harvey, not everything terrible that has happened to me links back to Trevor."

"Precedent says otherwise."

Mike rolls over and glares at him, jaw clenched tight. "Fuck you. Trevor helped me through this shit long before you sauntered into my life."

Harvey bites his tongue to keep from pointing out that Trevor's version of helping seemed to go hand-in-hand with smoking as much pot as possible. "Fine." Mike sags a little bit at this, relief and disappointment easy to read in the way his rigid shoulders drop. "But he isn't here now and I am. And despite what I've said about not wanting to hear about your soap opera life, this doesn't fall under that category."

Mike is the first to look away, worrying his lip between his teeth. The silence stretches out between them before Mike finally lies back down, tossing an arm over his eyes, and letting out a shaky sigh.

"What happened, Mike?" Harvey studies Mike's tense profile and pitches his voice to just above a whisper, not sure what exactly he is asking for but knowing that both of them need this, if for different reasons. "And don't lie to me."

Mike flinches, left hand nervously twitching, fingers plucking at the bed sheets. "Before I—before I get into this shit with you, you need to understand something, okay? Gram did the best she could. She and Pawpaw did everything they could to give me a normal life. They worked their asses off to give me a great childhood." His voice drops, defensiveness replaced with sadness. "But then Pawpaw died my freshman year of high school and we had to move to a new neighborhood because we didn't have enough money to keep living where we were. Most of the insurance money went to paying off bills. I was pissed—upset 'cause I had just lost someone else—and then we had to move and I had to change schools. It was just a lot to deal with in a short period of time. Gram had to scramble for a second job just to make ends meet. I wanted to get a job to help out but she wouldn't let me. Told me school was more important." Mikes swallows hard before continuing. "It wasn't the best school. Wasn't the best neighborhood either; we managed the best we could. But I didn't fit in at the school like I did at my old one; I was the weird, smart kid with no friends and the other kids took advantage of that."

Harvey sits forward, elbows digging into knees. "That wasn't just the product of some schoolyard bullying." He jerks his chin towards the living room even though Mike isn't looking at him.

Mike shakes his head, chest now rising and falling raggedly. "No."

"How bad did it get, Mike? Who did this to you?"

It takes Mike a long time to respond, to the point where Harvey thinks Mike isn't going to bother answering his questions. Mike lets out a long forceful sigh, deflating in front of Harvey's eyes. "There was a guy who thought it was his mission to make my life hell. It started like one of those ridiculous after school specials or something. He'd corner me after school and threaten me, punch me. Sometimes, he'd say things. Stuff that was just ridiculous sounding, ya know? Who says that kind of shit? I mean, it was like the kid's favorite movies all featured crazy women boiling bunnies or breaking ankles." Mike laughs, bitter and twisted, but Harvey can find nothing to laugh at in Mike's nervous ramble. "It wasn't that bad. I handled it. I did." The last breaks on a sob; Mike clenches his hand, the one not currently purposefully hiding his face from Harvey's view, and smacks into the mattress once, twice, a third time, each growing more frantic. Harvey catches his wrist as it descends again; he doesn't hold Mike's hand, just stills its motion, covering it with his own.

"How long?"

Mike clears his throat of tears. "Little over a year."

"And no one noticed in all that time? What the hell were your teachers doing? What about your grandmoth—. "

"Don't you dare blame her," Mike growls, jaw clenched tight. "She had enough on her plate and, despite what you think, I have a pretty damn good poker face."

"Fine, okay." Harvey rubs his fingers across the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the red from his vision. "So, you said a year. What changed?"

"He—he um—he got more aggressive. Possessive. Maybe that was what it was always about. I don't know. I mean, I had been bullied before, ya know? The usual pick on the scrawny smart kid stuff. But this was different. He always seemed angrier if he saw me around other people. I went on a date with this girl; we didn't even really like each other that much, just looking for something to do." He works his hand free from Harvey's grasp and runs his sweaty palm across the sheets. "Next day, he cornered me after school, shoved me in a bathroom stall. Tried to, uh, tried to. . ." Mike finally moves his hand away from his eyes, tears leaking out between tightly closed lids. He scrubs a shaky hand over his mouth, rubbing the skin red, his face twisted in pain. "I don't remember how I got away from him. I think someone came in and he freaked out, thought he was going to get caught."

"Shit." Harvey doesn't need to hear the exact words, the picture in his mind already razor-sharp clear; his stomach roils, a rod of fire and iron burning in his chest. "Did you tell anyone? Tell me you told somebody what happened."

Mike laughs; it's tinged with enough hysteria that it has Harvey getting out of the chair and sitting on the edge of the bed, hand coming to rest on Mike's chest. "Didn't have to. He jumped me in an alley the next day as I walking to school and beat the shit out of me with a piece of rebar. Guess he thought that was the best way to keep me from telling anyone. Actually should have thanked him for that because you can't really hide that there is something going on when you have enough pins, plates, and screws in your arm and leg to be the next Terminator. Gram was—God, I thought she was going to kill someone."

"I would have defended the hell out of her, too." Harvey means it, finally able to put into context old white and pink scars, glimpsed on late nights when Mike rolled his shirt sleeves up past his elbows or when he pulled his pants leg out of his sock after dismounting from his bicycle in the morning. It's easy for him to imagine a younger, skinnier Mike in a hospital bed, terrified but playing at the joker while relating to a group of stone faced police officers about how he had been terrorized and assaulted by a faceless fellow classmate.

"Harvey Specter, young, bright ADA, playing for the other side?" Mike tries for a smile, a ghost flitting across his face.

"For that, yes. I would have won, too, and then sued the school for every last penny just for being filled with a bunch of morons with blinders on."

Mike meets his gaze, judging him, weighing to see if his trust has been placed in the right person. Embarrassment and stubbornness war across his face, as if he is going to challenge the idea that he needs someone to fight for him, before he finally offers a tight nod. He curls onto his side, weariness winning out. "I meant what I said earlier. About how this doesn't happen that often. I saw a counselor back then, did the whole group therapy thing. Kept a journal. The whole sharing, weeping, pill popping shebang. Every so often, something just catches me off guard. It's not something you really forget."

Harvey watches the way the emotions play across Mike's face, but he is also watching Mike walk into his office yesterday, head down, and fingers nervously tugging at his tie, oddly silent while being lectured about keeping his phone on. "Something happened at lunch, didn't it?"

Mike grimaces and buries his face into the pillow, shivering despite the sheet covering him. "I got a call. There was a fight at the prison; someone attacked him. He died before they could get him to the hospital. I kept thinking I should be relieved because his parole hearing was coming up soon and now I wouldn't have to worry but I didn't really feel much of anything."

If Mike felt nothing at the news, Harvey distinctly feels a knot free itself inside his chest. He works his way further on to the bed; Mike gives a grunt of displeasure at being moved but worms his way over to the other side to make room. Harvey gratefully sinks into the soft mattress and stares up at the ceiling, trying to phrase his words exactly so that Mike will know he means them. "Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"The next time something like this happens, you goddamn tell me before it gets out of hand and you break another two hundred dollar lamp."

"Want me to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night?" Mike tries to play it off as a joke, but this is something that Harvey won't—can't— joke about.

"If that's what it takes." He sets the alarm on his phone; three hours isn't enough to make up for a lack of a good night's sleep, but maybe it will clear the cobwebs clogging his mind.

"Did you really pay that much for that ugly ass lamp? Have you never heard of Target?"

Harvey smirks. "As if I'd ever shop there. Try and get some sleep."

"Harvey?" There is a hesitant, unspoken question tacked on to his name, a quiet need for reassurance.

He rolls over onto his side, hand curling around Mike's shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere, kid."


End file.
